She pointed at a pub by the train station and asked one small, strange question. Weeks later I understood why it had snagged in my mind like a splinter.

A sleepy good-morning text, sent in two seconds before coffee. The phone finished the sentence for him, and the ending was a name that was not mine.

A plain USB drive showed up in our mailbox with no note and no return address. I almost threw it away. I wish I had.

I was only hunting for a dinner reservation when a stranger's glowing restaurant review used a name I knew far too well.

Every night she sat alone in her parked car before coming inside. She called it unwinding. I needed to know what she was really listening to.

He scrubbed every text, every call log, every trace. He never thought to check who the payment app put at the very top of his list.